Hairline Fractures
by soaring-smiles
Summary: If she were anything less than the girl she is, she might even be thick enough to think she's in love with him. [Ten/Rose AU]
1. Chapter 1

**Hi! It's another AU (ten/Rose this time) and guys, this one's a bit of a monster. Looking at 30,000+ words altogether.**

**So, before anyone decides to (quite rightly) bring up my dismal history with chaptered fics, I have actually written ten chapters out of a possible fifteen or so, and have the others sketched out. **

**Warnings: This is based around a post-Jimmy Stones Rose meeting a human Doctor, and therefore contains allusions to an abusive relationship, implied drug use, swearing and non-explicit sexual references. If you find any of that distressing or triggering, ****please don't read.****.**

**As always, feedback is much appreciated. **

**Written for isilienelenhin on tumblr**

* * *

**the delinquent**

_sometimes you have to turn the wrong way round  
sometimes you get too close to nowhere now  
don't stop now- crowded house_

* * *

Rose scuffs the floor with her sneakers, and scowls at the woman in front of her. The room is sharp with air freshener and the smell of new books, and the plastic chair she's sitting on digs painfully into her back.

"I thought I was s'posed to get a nice comfy couch," she snarks, and tugs at the stands of hair coming loose from her ponytail. Outside, she can hear people crying, arguing, traffic blaring past, a radio blasting The Cure at full volume.

_i don't care if monday's blue_

Sarah-Jane- she insisted on being called that the very first time Rose stepped in here- tilts her head and smiles without creasing her eyes. She's middle-aged, with shoulder-length brown hair, and she stares right at Rose like she's got her heart down in that little notebook she always writes in. "Perhaps you would have, had you not injured James Stones so badly he required sixty stitches and a two week hospital stint," Sarah-Jane says, almost sweetly.

Rose stiffens, nails digging into the soft skin of her palm. They'll leave tiny red crescents; sometimes she counts the indents when she can't get to sleep. Sarah-Jane studies her for a moment and notes something down. "Now," she continues, slightly more kind. "Are you going to tell me why?"

There is a long, cold silence, where Rose closes her eyes and shrinks into her denim jacket, fingers tapping a beat out on her leg. She's been seeing this woman three times a week, cause the court said so. Community service and therapy, plus compensation to Jimmy.

_tuesday wednesday heart attack_

"I didn't like his cat," says Rose, and opens her eyes wide. "And his singing was _shit."_

Sarah-Jane does nothing, just looks at her levelly. Notes something down. "Your community service starts on Friday," she says eventually. "Usually you'd be serving in a centre, but given the nature of the offence, your age at the time and your previously spotless record, I've talked with the judge, and he agrees that your service could be a little…different. I've looked into a school nearby that could use an after-hours cleaner."

"School?" asks Rose dubiously. She'd had enough of it two years ago, and has no intention of going back. "No thanks."

"You've no choice, I'm afraid. Besides, you're still basically a child-"

"Hey!"

"-and it would be...beneficial. The school's academic reputation is quite good. You might see what you've been missing; even be persuaded to take your A-Levels-"

"-and be a functioning member of society," Rose finishes dully. She's heard that too many times to catalogue, and every time it's just as annoying. "And," she adds sharply, "I'm not a kid."

Sarah-Jane raises one thin eyebrow. "You're eighteen."

"Whatever," Rose mutters.

Sarah-Jane leans forward and loses her polite facade, "I have spent a lot of effort and time to persuade the court and the principal to even let you onto the grounds. It took a lot of work, and most people in your situation would give their right ear and drug stash to get into this position. So do _not_ mess this up, or you'll be serving a sentence. Is that quite clear?"

The woman's face is set in concrete, eyes flashing dangerously, and hands clenched on top of her desk. Rose leans back and feels, despite her best efforts, the teensiest bit terrified.

"Alright," she says, "alright. I'll do it; don't get your knickers in a knot."

"Good." Sarah-Jane smiles. "I've forwarded the details to your mother, and just in case," she hands a slim folder over, "here is a hard copy. They're expecting you on Friday evening, at seven. The social worker in charge is a woman called Harriet Jones. She won't be with you all night, so the court is placing a large amount of trust in you to follow her orders. If you decide to skive off or the school finds the work is unsatisfactory, I'll be forced to reconsider."

Rose seethes. "Friday? They've got to be joking; Shireen's having a bash at her place, I can't miss it-"

"You _will_ be there," Sarah-Jane says, in a tone that directly implies what will happen to Rose if she isn't. Abruptly, Rose stands up and snatches the file, too much music and resentment flooding through her to handle.

"Fine," she snaps. "But Mum's not gonna care. And you're wrong about me being a kid, and that skirt is hideous."

_it's friday i'm in love_

She leaves with a slam of the door, stalks past the receptionist, and into the freezing concrete of the parking lot. Keisha's there, yelling into a phone to Jared cause he hooked up with Lucy (_biggest_ chav) and just the other day said he'd marry her.

"Bloody bastard!" Keisha screams, making an elderly woman walk quickly away from them. "I'll tell you exactly you can stick your bloody engagement ring, and let me tell you, it ain't where the sun fucking shines!"

She slams the phone shut, so angry she's likely to explode. Rose buttons up her jacket against the wind, and a snazzy SUV honks at Keisha's car cause she parked it across two spaces.

"I need a drink," Keisha says grimly, flipping the car off, and opening the door to her own battered white Ford. Rose wonders briefly whether Keisha cares she just flashed from under her short skirt, but decides not.

Her friend doesn't even have the word shame in her dictionary.

"It's four in the afternoon," Rose points out grudgingly, and climbs into the tiny passenger seat. She doesn't really like drinking, anymore. Keisha laughs bitterly, and revs the engine.

"I need two," she says, and glances at the file Rose is still holding. "What's that then? Pictures of kittens and shit to calm my favourite psycho down?"

"Come off it." Rose shoves the other girl's shoulder as they exit the parking lot jerkingly. It took three tries and a fair amount of cleavage for Keisha's licence. "It's my community service thing. Cleaning a school, apparently."

Keisha laughs so hard she nearly swerves into the wrong lane and kills someone. "Oh god," she gasps, giggling hysterically. "Do they know about that time you set the cooking room on fire, or stole all the tests and replaced them with Mrs Kelly's dating profile? And that day when you made it to the top of the climbing rope and swung onto the rafters! You stayed there for three hours, _fuck_, Coach was gonna strangle you I swear..." Keisha dissolves into laugher again. "An' you're going _back_?"

Rose just crosses her arms. "Maybe," she says airily, "or maybe I won't even show at all. It's some public posh place, anyway, and I've got better things to do than mop my way through the night."

(this, they are both aware, is a total lie)

* * *

Jackie Tyler's reaction is not better. Better than it would have been, pre-maiming-of-Jimmy, but still.

"I've a mind to call that cow up; who _does_ she think she is? Community service cleaning a school? That's rubbish." Jackie sniffs, and pours more wine into the sauce. Rose knows from unfortunate prior experience that the alcohol won't save her mother's cooking.

"I guess it's not that bad," Rose says, rolling an apple between her hands. "Shireen had to clean all that graffiti off the bottom of a bridge, remember?"

Her mum snorts. "Shireen was so drunk she couldn't tell her grandmother from her own arse. Serves her right for driving. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Mum."

"All you did was pull that no good stoner down a peg-"

"_Mum_," Rose repeats, so steely she thinks some pain from her chest must have leaked into her voice. Her fingers tighten. "Just leave it. I don't mind. I do this for however long I have to, then get on with my life, alright?"

Jackie stares at her daughter, and for once in her life, holds her tongue. It's a skill she's perfected (almost) over the last couple of months. "Alright," she repeats. Rose sighs slowly, and traces her nails over the table surface, all the grooves and scratches she put on it. "Howard asked me out tonight," her mum ventures. "At that Chinese place Arianne likes."

"Yeah?" asks Rose, and that's sort of weird, her mum dating again. "Do you like him?"

"I dunno yet. But he's a good man, sweetheart. You don't find then often. Best stick onto them." Jackie nods, sipping from the bottle and then tipping more into the saucepan. At this rate it's more wine than cream.

Rose knows she's talking about Mickey. Mickey, who's been coming around with chocolate and hugs ever since...well...she became a 'threat to the safety of others'. Mickey, who's nice and sweet and very, very safe.

"I know, mum," says Rose. "I know."

It's the same song, always, just different lyrics.

Later that night, when her mum's out getting moo-shu pork and flirting her brains out, Rose looks over her penance. It isn't exactly stereotypical service. She thought it was all cleaning up streets and roads or something, in those god-awful orange vests.

The Prydonian Academy expects her five nights a week, from seven to eleven, from Monday to Friday night. Tidying classrooms, cleaning halls, that sort of thing. Any romantic Breakfast-Club dream flies right out of her head; no fellow criminals to help her out at the posh institute for daddy's girls and pre-millionaires.

Rose sighs, and flops down on the bed, rubbing her eyes. She'd almost prefer graffiti over this; before she'd quit, school had been near hell for her. Between the awkward stages of kiss-chasy and boy-crazy, Rose had made it her business to try and cause as much chaos as possible. Then followed the avalanche of detentions, suspensions and cold silent tube rides home with Jackie.

But then she'd hit fifteen and magically straightened out; at least, until she'd dropped school to go live with Jimmy. The truckload of shit that followed was nothing like the one before...except maybe those cold, guilty silences.

Rose turns over, facing the wall and the box she needs to unpack. She forces the waver of her mouth into a small grim smile. At least it's not some community service centre. And she won't have to wear a dodgy uniform either. It could be worse.

Thinking of the way it felt to dig that broken bottle into Jimmy's skin, she knows it could be so much worse.

* * *

Friday arrives quickly, after a week of running around trying to find a place that'll hire her. Henrik's had ended up the only place that took an interest, the manager Adam kindly overlooking her...er..._history_. Her mates rib her about serving customers at a place she sneers at, clothing-wise, but her mum's pretty happy with it. Mainly because she's been spending nights at Howard's, and he buys her flowers.

Rose doesn't really feel anything towards the job, in particular, only is glad there's money to fund her fish and chip addiction.

There's a train ride that takes forever, and she has to walk at least six blocks before coming to a halt in front of wrought-iron gates. God, it's so far out of the city; and she's got to take this journey five times a week! Panting, she stares up at the school. The Prydonian Academy is huge, imposing, rising up three stories with stone and metal and some style of architecture that reminds her of haunted houses. But inside, she knows from the school's website, is shiny clean and silver.

She swallows, reaching for the comforting shape of her phone, tucked away in her jean pocket. And then with a bravado she's supposed to feel and doesn't, Rose slips in between the gates, and heads for the main entrance.

There's a huge hockey field to her left, the school logo everywhere she looks, some sort of strange infinity-like symbol. She can practically see snotty kids running around, posh and rich and privileged. She'd gone to a school where no one cared whether she bunked or not.

The gravel beneath her sneakers crunches loudly, and shadows play at her feet; it seems an age till she gets to the steps leading up to the doors. Uncertainly, she looks around, before seeing someone in the half-light.

"You must be Miss Tyler," says the woman who's leaning on the doors. She's in her fifties, Rose would guess, wearing a smart skirt-suit, and a slightly fake smile. "Harriet Jones, your supervisor. I'm here to make sure you show up, and then I'm gone, I'm afraid. You're perfectly safe; the cleaners are around and in any case, the academy has security and keeps a close eye staff."

The way she says it, it's almost a threat. "Okay," Rose says reluctantly.

"Right well, I'll let you in and then be out of your way. Remember to check out with the guard, please." Harriet hands Rose the vest- _ugh_- a book and a piece of paper. "Your required clothes, the service log that I and the guard will be signing and your schedule for tonight."

"Thanks," Rose mutters, wrapping the fluorescent fabric around her hand. "See ya." She goes to step up to the gold-plated handle, to get in there and away from the cold, but Harriet stops her with a hand to the arm.

"Rose? You do have someone to pick you up, don't you?"

The woman's face creases into a smile, and Harriet looks friendly for a moment. Rose swallows. Thinks of her mum who made her pack pepper-spray in her bag, and Mickey, whose team has a match on tonight. Of that long lonely train ride back, and the way that men sometimes eye her, when she's alone.

"Yeah," she says, the words thick and hard to choke down. "Course I do."

And with that, her supervisor is no longer supervising, and Rose is alone in the science block of the Prydonian Academy, the ring of the door thudding behind her, white shining halls in front of her.

Well, it's about three times as boring as she expected, she realizes, staring down at the list of things she has to do.

_empty bins_

_clean hallways_

_tidy desks_

_gather lost property_

and a lot of other things that are kind of shit and kind of relieving at the same time.

And although she's only been assigned the science wing, she knows she's going to get hopelessly lost. The halls are new and repetitively bright, the classrooms relatively clean and completely carbon copies of each other. Even for a girl who's grown up in the inner city of London, it's gonna present a challenge, and she's not even going to get into the particulars of lugging a red rickety trolley and mop behind her.

But she can yell down the stairwell and have it echo back up to her. In one lab, there's one of those axl-whatsits in a tank that a) is a very good listener, and b) she immediately christens Sir Lancelotl. Also, sliding down the floor with socks on is _highly_ recommended.

Rose Tyler hooks her iPod in, ties the vest around her forehead like an orange warcry, and sets to work.

_(she may as well have fun while she's at it)_

* * *

Two weeks pass like this.

There's days, spent at Henrik's, avoiding Adam's roving eye, packing away shirts and barely making conversations when she doesn't have to. She wishes idly she could overlook her manager's annoying habit of staring at her chest, but already she's placing mental bets with herself on how long she'll stay before having an outburst. Shireen, who works in shoes, sends her sympathetic macaroons from the food court, but all the toasted caramel flavoured sugar in the world isn't enough to make up for her snotty customers.

There's weekends, spent either with a water or forced drink in her hand, Shireen and Keisha bitching and planning Jared's death, or at home curled up watching TV. Jackie goes out more than she does (dressed in stuff she wouldn't look at) but Rose remembers hot, slick psychedelia, remembers sequins and moist breath, dancing in heels and drinking god-knows-what spiked with stuff she wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole, now. She remembers _Jimmy_, and decides EastEnders ain't so bad, after all.

There's lunches, with mates and Mickey. She likes laughing loudly, likes grinning at people and counting the quickness of their steps. In a place where she's had no power for so long, even fear tastes okay. Shireen and Keisha get it; rib her about her la-di-dah service at that posh school.

Mickey sometimes holds her hand, too. Sometimes she wonders what his mouth would feel like; she's only kissed three people (only one more than once) and wouldn't mind adding him to the list.

Always, she snaps out of it. Not a relationship, thanks, not now.

There's therapist sessions with Sarah-Jane, all how-do-you-feel and kindly gestures hiding the subtext of _why the fuck did Rose leave bits of broken glass in James Stone's chest._

She wants to say it seemed fair to reciprocate, but instead smiles vaguely and tells Sarah-Jane that Jimmy chewed his food too loudly. That he tried to take her spot on the couch. Bad in bed, sloppy kisser, awful cook- take your pick.

"I thought it'd be an improvement," says Rose on Wednesday, squinting at the photo of a baby bear to her left. "Lost all that weight in hospital, didn't he?"

Sarah-Jane lights a cigarette, and considers retiring.

And then, after hearing about her mother's escapades with Harold, and enduring yet another stellar candidate for Food Poisoning of the Year, she's got those evenings. Long, silent evenings where she cleans and sings in the quiet, where she nods at passing birds and janitors. She takes a spill or two, causes more than a couple, and usually dances, just for fun, when nobody's watching.

There's always Harriet, distant but nice, and Rose's vest strung around her body in varying ways depending on her mood, and those tiny little letters on a white pages spelling out her work. The book that the guards and Harriet sign each night grows heavy in her pocket.

And those train/bus rides/walks home, familiar sense of buzzing fearful anticipation as she's so alone in the night. But no one tries anything, and she learns to look up at the stars framed close by black liquid, and think of things that aren't Jimmy's lashes brushing his cheek when he sleeps.

She settles into a rhythm because that's the only thing she knows how to do, because she doesn't like looking back. And everything's dull but safe (oh, does she need safe) and she can see each day laid out like ironed clothes, nothing creased much anymore, so predictable she almost likes it.

Until Friday, ten at night, mopping the floor and Ian Dury in her headphones...and a man who probably shouldn't be there.


	2. Chapter 2

**I won't say anything about the regeneration- I'm more than sure all of you have your own opinions. Goodnight raggedy-man, and thank you Matt Smith. I'll miss you awfully.**

** And ****_hello _****Peter. I was ecstatic when they announced him earlier this year- he's perfect, gorgeous, and one of my absolute favourites. **

**Anyway, enjoy the latest chapter!**

* * *

**the gentleman**

_and you're running away  
what's your name  
like i'm in the way  
wasting too much time  
don't I hold you- wheat_

Her vest is wrapped haphazardly around her neck tonight, attempting to be a scarf. She's painted her ragged nails shades of sparkly pink and yellow, glittering blue and lacquered green, because well fuck it, she can. No one cares now what her nails look like. She wears thumbrings and odd socks, patchy jeans and messes up her hair into mismatched plaits because she likes being herself, because now, she can.

So, mopping the floor with one red sock and one loveheart-patterned one, she's belting out the lyrics to Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick, banging the nearest row of lockers for emphasis on the important bits. She twirls, plays the mop like a guitar, shutting her eyes.

"Hit me, hit me!" she crows, executing a slippery pirouette and slamming the handle of her mop into something soft that is _definitely_ not a locker. Rose cracks open her eyes, letting her headphones fall to the ground.

Fuck.

A man is curled over with his arms wrapped around his stomach, a man with a shock of brown hair going everywhere, and a fancy-looking microscope going toward the floor. Rose dives for it, kicking over the bucket in her haste, and crashes her shoulder into the wall. But her fingers curl around the lensey bit, and she catches it just before she's responsible for breaking a valuable piece of equipment.

"Ow," wheezes the man, recovering and standing to his full height, which is, now she notices, pretty bloody tall. Rose clambers to her feet, handing over the microscope sheepishly, eyes downcast.

"Sorry," she mutters, deciding whether to be embarrassed that he saw (and _heard_) her putting her soul into Ian Dury, or that she might have caused internal bleeding.

She chooses both.

The man clutches the microscope with the air of a toddler grabbing his favourite toy. "Oh," he says, winded, "thank god. I've set one on fire already; I'm beginning to think Rassilon is going to cut my pay."

His accent is like hers, but a bit softer. "I'm _so_ sorry," Rose repeats, biting her lip. He sends her a flash of a grin, and the coil of anxiety inside her starts to loosen just a tad.

"Nah. Can't blame you for getting into Ian Dury. Great music."

"Yeah?" she asks. "Mum always says they were one of Dad's favourites."

"Good man. Er," the man looks down at the pool of water soaking his shoes. "Sorry. I seem to have caused a spillage."

Rose shrugs, leaning down to grab a paper towel from what she's nicknamed The Magic Cleaner Trolley. "I'm the one that caused kidney damage," she says, not trying to joke- but there it is. Natural defence, resorting to bad awkward humour.

To her surprise, the man places the microscope on the floor and helps her mop up. He's skinny, maybe early thirties, dressed in a pin-striped suit with a pair of glasses in his lapel. Posh, despite his voice.

"I'm Rose," she says, sneaking a glance up at him and wondering exactly how messy her hair is. "Nice to meet you...kind of." She winces.

"Nice to meet you, Rose the...cleaner?" The water is nearly gone; the man straightens and helps her up, eyes lingering on the orange scarf-vest. Instead of turning away or eyeing her suspiciously like others would, he just smirks. "_Delinquent_ cleaner. Ooh, I like that. Don't get many of them."

Something about him puts her at ease. "Yeah, well," she says. "One in a million, that's me. Thanks for helping. I get the feeling most people would just sort of...step on me."

He smiles at her, a nice one. "Can't think why. So, Rose the criminal cleaning-girl, what did you do to get community service in here?" He leans back against the locker, seemingly fascinated by the tatty string bracelets tied across her wrists. She crosses her arms, stiffens a tiny bit, but just sticks her tongue through her teeth instead of skittering off.

He isn't her therapist, after all, just curious.

"Killed kittens," she says solemnly, after a bit. "Sold em too."

He tuts. "Knew it the moment I saw it. Kitten-killer."

"Absolutely heartless," she chimes in, and after a moment of good natured smiling, he picks up his microscope, and nods at her. "I'll see you around, then," he says casually, and it sounds like a promise, as his battered converses patter away.

"Sorry about the bashing thing," she calls after him, fresh embarrassment flooding into her.

"It's good to be a lunatic," he sing-songs, twirling briefly before tossing her another bright grin and exiting the hallway with a flourish.

And that's where it starts.

* * *

On Monday at Henrik's, after an uneventful weekend full of bad chick flicks and hot tea, there's a letter waiting in Rose's cubby. She raises an eyebrow (or attempts to, anyway) and tears at the opening eagerly.

**BITCH**, it reads in wobbly capitals, **WE'RE COMING TO GET YOU, HOR**

"You know," says Rose. "I don't even think that's a word." She sneaks into Adam's office so she can use the paper shredder, and laughs because she knows Luke's handwriting after years of seeing it scrawled on Jimmy's music scores.

Luke's too stupid to come after her at the estate, and has no idea about where she's around these days. She's even careful about avoiding any places where Jimmy and his mates might be.

Still, she keeps an eye out that evening, sitting quiet and tense on the train as stop by stop rolls by. The reflection ripples in the window, and she accepts that sometimes, she can have bad days and be okay anyway.

* * *

"Hah!" she exclaims, "take that!"

Finally, after about ten minutes of trying to push her trolley out of the classroom, and some painful moves from her gymnastic days, Rose has managed to shove herself and the cleaning implements through the doorway. She wiggles her hips in celebration, adjusting her vest that is, for once, worn the right way (albeit it adorned with a glittery pink ribbon and several anime badges she found on the floor). After a moment for jubilation, she continues on with her chores.

_clean out locker 301,_ says her sheet.

301? What's in 301? She frowns, before trailing her fingers down the dark blue lockers, watching the numbers flick by as she speeds up. _295...297...299...301._

Glaring at the open lock, she reaches towards it hesitantly. If she has to clean out some brat's half-eaten food, Rose swears to god...

"Hello."

She shrieks, jumps, before realizing the man from Friday has strolled up next to her, hands jammed firmly in his pockets. After taking a moment to soothe her heart palpitations, she tries an awkward half-wave that she immediately regrets.

The man waggles his fingers back at her, before replacing them in his pocket.

"Hi," she says. "Still standing, then?"

"Oh," he shrugs, lips twitching, "take more than a mop to put me out of action. How's your night?"

"Well, you know. Clean. Boring." Rose sighs. "And now I've got to clean out some kid's locker." She closes her hand around the opening, and is stopped by the man's palm over the locker door.

"That kid," he corrects, "happens to be Dorothy McShane. I would advise you to not open it, unless you like having no fingers. Although," he removes his hand to run it through his hair, "you might. Get a bionic set of fingers. Those look pretty fun, don't you think, all silver and, well...bionic."

Rose steps back rather quickly from locker 301. "Why'd they ask me to clean it?" she demands. He lifts his mouth in a tiny smile.

"I suspect they didn't."

Looking down at her sheet, Rose groans at the sight of her last instruction in a slightly different font. "Little shit," she mutters, glaring at the locket door and feeling a strong urge to kick it.

"Sometimes. She must have gotten into the secretary's computer somehow. She's got an affinity for science, not surprisingly. One of my best students. I'm sorry, I was in a hurry the other night. I'm the Doctor."

She raises an eyebrow. "Doctor who?"

"Just the Doctor." He sticks out a hand for her to shake, which she does, slightly confused. "You're Rose, I remember," he adds. "Not likely to forget the girl who stabbed me with a mop handle. Neither are my kidneys, I don't think."

"Sorry." That's all she seems to be able to say around this man. He waves it off. "So, um...Doctor. What're you doing hanging around here so late?" she asks.

"I'm continuing an experiment, taking down notes, that sort of thing. I'm a visiting teacher. Principal Rassilon invited me to educate the little brats." He says it fondly. "Lecture on string theory and the mechanics of time. Must say, it got me out of Oxford; blessed relief, that."

She opens her mouth, then shuts it again. Wow. "You're studying at Oxford?"

"Teaching, actually, astrophysics mainly," he says cheerfully, and she laughs in disbelief. "What?" he asks, affronted.

"Nothing," she chuckles, gesturing at her bucket and trolley, standing despondently in the hall. "Just, not exactly in the most sparkling company, are you?" The Doctor smiles.

"Ah, I dunno. Met cleaning girls that were ten times more interesting than stuffy old deans. And," he adds with a charming little quirk of his mouth, "your dancing is far more superior than any of my colleagues."

"Yeah?"

"Definitely."

She laughs a little, scuffs her feet on the floor. When she glances up, he's still smiling at her. "Um," she begins, and then shakes her head. "I should...probably go. It's just, it's kind of late and my mum will worry-" liar-"so..."

The Doctor's amused look fades into something a little more concerned. "Do you need someone to take you home?" he asks. She's about to say no, to deflect his offer like she did with Harriet...but it's the way he says it. He wants to help, he's not pitying her.

"I...yeah." She swallows. "But it's alright, I live right in the city so it's a while away, and I can take the train-"

"At night? Walking to the bus stop in the cold, taking the tube alone?" he interjects, a little unimpressed. "What sort of self-respecting gentleman would I be to let you do that?"

"Right, well," she shifts, "thanks, then."

He accompanies her down to put her trolley away, as she strips off her vest and tugs on a jacket, grabbing for her bag. Tall, graceful, and a chatterbox. Rambling about his students and experiments, seemly at home with spilling trivial details of his life to a complete stranger.

It's kind of nice, to be the one listening and not answering questions. Not that he doesn't ask them, but they're things like 'have you ever tried to explain string theory to a ten year old?', and she can giggle and not answer and he talks on.

Before she realizes, they're out in the parking lot, surrounded by inky black and carefully trimmed bushes. An old, yet obviously loved blue car sits patiently by the black iron fence. The Doctor, now clad in a long tan trench coat, pats the bonnet affectionately.

"Type 40 TARDIS," he announces, misty-eyed like any bloke, "they don't make ones like her anymore."

Rose is struck by the realization that she's about to climb into a car with a complete stranger. Who, while nice and chatty and apparently pleasantly batty, she knows next to nothing about.

"I've got pepper spray," she says, standing a little bit back with her hand in her polka-dot bag.

He's startled for a moment, then nods solemnly. "I would expect nothing less."

"So no raping," she says, pointing a finger. "Or murdering." She's pretty sure he wouldn't do either, but that serial killer Ted Bundy was supposedly a nice looking bloke who acted sweet, so better safe than sorry.

"I promise," he says seriously, "I am not the sort of man who would even consider thinking about either."

"Good." She lowers her finger and walks cheerily to the passenger door. "Just so's we've got that sorted." She swings into the leather seat and fastens the seatbelt, glancing around at the clean, glossy interior. The radio looks new despite the car's age, the whole thing obviously adored.

"Yes," the Doctor continues as he settles in and fires up the engine in a smooth well-rehearsed movement. "Very sensible of you. Forward thinking."

"That's me. Be prepared, scout's honour and all that."

The car approaches the guards by the gate, and the Doctor rolls down the window so she can get that book signed, eyes mildly curious, a bit probing. The man hands it back, and they roll through and onto the street.  
"You did scouts?" he asks curiously, turning on the heat and the CD player at the same time.

"Nah." She rests her arm on the side of the window and gazes out at the sky. "I did crash one of their meetings, though. That was fun. Good biscuits." One bone-cracking yawn later, and she's about ready to fall asleep, only kept hanging by the music.

"Country fan?" she mumbles sleepily, gesturing at the radio weakly, head slipping down to fall on her palm. He reaches out with his spare hand to grab hers, squeezing her fingers gently.

"Hey now," he warns lightly, "no sleeping; I don't know where you live."

"Right," she slurs. "That...that way."

The music plays on, and she directs him softly- a turn here, a left there, song past song singing out, her half-asleep as asphalt rolls on, and suddenly they're there. Powell Estate. Home. She hadn't even noticed they'd entered the busier part of London, so lost in herself and the night.

"Thanks for the ride," she says slowly, giving him a smile and clambering out. "I'd have probably passed out on the train." She hooks her bag around her shoulder.

"See you tomorrow night," he calls.

"Tomorrow?"

"Well, I can't let you get home by yourself. Think of all the nasty things out there." He's teasing, but they both know the risks-even if she chooses to ignore them.

_I_, she's about to say, _can handle myself._ But...it's kind of comforting. She doesn't like being alone, sometimes. "I don't want to be a bother," she hedges.

"Rubbish." His teeth gleam in the street-light. "Goodnight, Rose. Sleep well." He reverses cautiously, and Rose stares after the Type 40 TARDIS, realizing she'd liked his music.

"Night," she says, and stumbles up the stairs, into the flat and into bed.

She dreams of cats chasing string, a man laughing and a beautiful boy with pretty blue eyes and glass shards pouring out of his mouth.

_sometimes i hold you right_, he sings, _nice and tight to me_

He rasps broken chords and Rose feels picks sliding over her skin like he's trying to play her strings.

* * *

"_Hey there...um..."_

_"Rose."_

_"Yeah." The boy smiles, meltingly. "Knew it had to be something pretty. I was wondering if you..."_

_Rose bites her lip, looks down, fingertips brushing the hem of her school skirt. "Yeah," she prompts, near breathless. Shireen, a couple of metres down, is giggling hysterically._

_"If you'd wanna go get something to eat Friday night. Chips or whatever. With me." His guitar case brushes the ground. It's going to rain soon, and his friends are smirking up ahead by the deli._

_"Definitely," breathes Rose, then catches herself, tugging at her hair. "I mean. Er, yeah. Sure. Great."_

_"Great," he echoes nervously, and then is grabbing her hand and a pen. His handwriting, small but messy, fills the space between her knuckles. "Cheers. I'll see you then, at that place by-"_

_"The ice cream store," she interrupts eagerly. "S'my favourite."_

_"Me too."_

_They share a grin, and then he's walking away, blonde hair falling over his eyes, mouth a wicked curve. Rose swallows, staring at the numbers she's probably going to to memorize later. Shireen slings an arm around her shoulder._

_The rain washes away the last digit into a blue indecipherable blur, but she tries every combination of numbers until she hits upon the right one._

_His name is James, and he's the only thing that's ever given Rose butterflies that feel quite this good._


End file.
